Let sleeping Sherlock's lie
by ThatSummerInWonderland
Summary: The Yard shows up for another pretend drugs bust, but Sherlock's asleep. What antics will happen now? One-shot!


**R&R please, also- Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, because if I did then Johnlock would be Canon. Just saying. :)**

"Sherlock! Sherlock, it's Lestrade. Open up, it's another drugs bust." Lestrade rapped on the olive door smartly with his knuckles, calling through the wood to the inhabitence on the other side. Suprisingly, it wasn't Sherlock that opened the door with his usual arrogant, annoyed scowl, it was John. He looks a bit annoyed as well, but calm all the same. "Another one? What has he takes this time?" he sighed, exasperated. "The dead man's phone." was the only reply as they stepped into the on-so familiar flat of their favorite Consulting Detective. "Fine, but hurry up and stay quiet. I finally got Sherlock to sleep and he needs all the rest he can get after that last case. You know him, sleeping slows his brain down." John rolled his eyes at his flatmate's antics.

Lestrade looked around, along with Sally and Anderson, to find Sherlock sleeping on the couch, his head planted under the spray-painted smiley-face on the wall. He was curled up in a loose fetal position, an obviously (even to Anderson) old, knitted blanket thrown over his limp form. His hair was filled with static and ruffled more than if he'd have stuck his head in a tornado. His face was, for once, calm and peaceful, his eyes lightly flickering behind his pale, closed eyelids. He shifted slightly, rolling onto his back with his socked feet propped up on the opposite armrest. Lestrade looked quite shocked to find Sherlock actually sleeping, Sally was staring at him like he'd just been caught performing alien rituals to call back his home race, and Anderson was snapping pictures on his phone for future blackmail. John just looked relieved.

"Well, I have to go out and clear something up with the clinic, I should be back in a few minutes. Try to stay quiet and if he wakes up, give him two of the pills on the desk and send him back to bed. There sleeping pills, I had to slip them into his drink to get him to eat them, since he wouldn't do it willingly, crazy arse. He should take them since he'd still be a bit loopy off them. I'll see you in a bit." John suddenly announced, snatching his old coat off the coat rack in the corner. Lestade looked like John had just told him to babysit hit pet hog (in a way he kind of had), but tried his hardest to compose himself. "Alright, those pills over there?" he reassured, pointing to the small bottle of sleeping pills on the crowded desk beside John's laptop. John nodded and after a small wave, he was off.

For about ten minutes everything seemed to be fine, but with Sherlock Holmes, nothing ever lasts. A small moan escaped his lips as he slept, shifting positons so his back was to them. No one really though anything of it, and went on as quietly as possible with their task. But the silence was broken again, and again, by Sherlock himself. "Don't hurt him." he mumbled in his sleep. Anderson was already readying his phone for some sleep-talking blackmail. Lestrade, however, was concerned. He had a hunch about who Sherlock was talking about. "Don't hurt him, take me instead." he mumbled again, stretching out slightly.

Suddnely, in a slow haze, Sherlock's crystal-clear blue eyes drifted open and he yawned slightly, stretching where he sat. Slowly rolling over, he rubbed a long, spidery hand over his eyes and coughed shortly. Lestrade was at his side in seconds, two pills in hand. "Sherlock, take these, alright?" he said softly in a way that he hoped resembled John's voice. Sherlock squinted and sat up, his hair flying all directions in the very definintion of bed-head,and stared tiredly at Lestrade. "Dad?" he muttered lazilly, rubbing at his eyes again, the blanket slipping off his lap. He was clad in a pair of dark blue pajama trousers and an old grey undershirt. "Um, sure, Sherlock, it's me. It's your dad, so take your medicine and go back to sleep." Lestrade coaxed, Sally walking over with a cup of water so she could at least _say_ she helped. Her cheeks were red with the un-vocalized laughter welling up in her throat. Sherlock, the world's most arrogant arse, calling Lestrade his _dad_! _Oh you're not going to forget this one, Freak._ She thought to herself, retreating beside Anderson, who was filming the whole thing.

"Dad, what are you doing here? I thought you were in America with Mummy." his words were slurred with sleep, and it was all Lestrade could do not to panic at his friend's sleepy deduction, how could he reply to _that_? Anderson had gotten Sally's laughter cheeks at the fact that Sherlock still called his mother 'mummy'. "I-I came back, now take these pills." Lestrade said again, jesturing to the two small, white pills he'd shaken into his palm from the bottle. "M'kay." he replied lazilly and grabbed the new pills from Lestrade's open hand, dry swallowing them and laying back down on his back. "Tell Mummy I said 'Hello', m'kay?" was his last comment before he drifted off, his eyelids slipping over his already foggy, blue orbs as his brilliant mind slipped into sleep. Lestrade gave a sigh of relief and for the next half hour things went smoothly.

That is, until Sherlock woke up again.

"Lestrade, what are you and your goons doing in my house? If this is about the phone I just need it for further investigation, so un-tie that knot in your pants and get out." Sherlock's cutting, normal clear voice sliced the silence like a white-hot knife through cold butter. "Sherlock!" he yelped in return, staring at the tall man sitting straight up in the middle of the couch, still in his pajamas with his hair in complete disarray. A firm scowl was painted on his face, and he pushed himself off the couch with one fell swoop of his long arms. With a quick flick of his right arm, his dressing robe was off the backboard of the couch and on his shoulders, his long hands already tying the robe's belt around his tiny waist. "Get out of my house. If you want the phone so much it's under my skull. I swear, you'd loose your head if it wasn't sewn onto your necks, now get out. Anderson!" he interrupted himself, "put those down, you'll ruin my experiment!" His voice was annoyed as he glared at the incompitent worker who was holding up a small bottle of fingers soaking in some transparent green liquid, making the fingernails slowly erode away. Lestrade turned to the untouched skull and lifted it up, staring blandly at the powered-down smartphone under it. He plucked it out with one hand and replaced the head on the small pile of books and papers. "Oh, thanks, Sherlock." he muttered, turning it on and finding that it needed a passcode. "Sherlock-" "The pass code is 2794, now get out of my flat and arrest his brother for murder. It's all in the texts." he interrupted shortly, walking in about two strides to the door and pulling it open to enunciate his point. "Right, fine, come on, gang. We're all done here."

The team, with a sign of exaustion and, for some, relieve, all fulnneled out the door, but Sally, Anderson, and Lestrade, all at the end of the line, stopped dead at his next comment. "Oh, and Anderson." he said coldly, with a hint of mischief, "If you know what's good for you, you'll delete that video of me sleep-talking while high off of sleeping pills. Sally, you won't spread the story through your little chain of friends, and Lestrade, you won't visit my house when I'm not awake again. Understood?" "Understood." Sally and Anderson squeaked in union, running off like scared children. Lestrade just nodded and they took off down the stairs.

John climbed the staris of his well-known flat and walked through the door, finding Sherlock playing with his chemicals in the kitchen. "So I take it you woke up and shoo'd the Yard off, then?" he asked, walking in with a gallon of mink on one hand and his jacket in the other. "Please don't let them in when I'm asleep again, or when I'm drugged into sleep." he suggested with a hint of ice in his voice, not even looking up form his microscope. "What happened?" John asked curiously. After a long pause, Sherlock finally replied. "I sleep-talked, and when I woke up I was still drugged and my mind convinced me that Lestrade was my father." he muttered, a pinkish-red tint lighting up his cheeks like a Christman tree. "Sorry, darling. It won't happen again." John said, planting a small peck on his flatmate's cheek. Sherlock's blush only grew as he tried adn failed to contain his smile.

"So, what's for dinner? I'm starved!"


End file.
